


Oh, What A World

by bikadoo_2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 21:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18881644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bikadoo_2/pseuds/bikadoo_2
Summary: When the war ends, Jon Snow returns to Winterfell... and returns to her.An epilogue and re-imagining of what 8x6 may bring.





	Oh, What A World

**Author's Note:**

> "Oh, what a world, don't wanna leave  
> All kinds of magic all around us, it's hard to believe  
> Thank God it's not too good to be true  
> Oh, what a world, and then there is you." 
> 
> \--- Kacey Musgraves, 'Oh, what a world'.

The day he returns, Sansa is in the Godswood.

It has been a moon since the news reached the North. Kings Landing, in ruin. Daenerys Targaryen, dead as her dragons. And Jon Snow, alive.

Sansa had clung to the scroll in disbelief. In a short missive, peace had been declared and the Iron Throne deemed useless.  _ Let the kingdoms be as they once were,  _ Jon wrote,  _ and mayhaps then there will be peace. _

After an adolescence of death and destruction, peace does not come easy to Sansa Stark.

Her skin has been made a map of men’s desires and her spine has turned to steel. Gone is the girl she once was, green as a spring bloom and in her place is the monster they made her. She is but a mould of treachery and torture alike, a creation of the enemies she had to endure.

Some days Sansa finds herself visiting her old chambers, wondering about the girl she once was. The daughter known to Eddard and Catelyn Stark had been a girl of surpassing loveliness, with an eye for songs and a heart too soft for war. But that girl was as dead as her parents, lost to the ambitions of Lords and Ladies who sought to control her.

_ All for a throne that no longer exists. _

“Sansa.”

Hearing his voice allows her to breathe again. For the first time in moons, she can feel her lungs working and her heart thrumming in her chest. It screams  _ alive, alive, alive,  _ a sound she has not heard since the dragon Queen left Winterfell.

Sansa has survived through many things, but it seems her body could not survive the absence of him. Jon Snow had travelled South, and took her heart with him. For how could she breathe when he was fighting in another war? For how could she sleep when all she dreamt was of bloodied battlefield and lifeless grey eyes?

Sansa turns on her heel, as Ghost bounds from her side and to the man kneeling before her. She wants to tell him to get up, but her words are admissions of feelings she doesn’t want to acknowledge and so she remains quiet.

“Ghost,” Jon gasps out, confusion a reprieve from the exhaustion painted on his face.

“I heard you wanted to send him beyond the Wall,” Sansa says, remembering how Brienne had whispered of Tormund Giantsbane and the direwolf at his side. “I couldn’t let him leave, not after all this time. Ghost is family… as are you.”

Jon looks to his wolf, his grey eyes moons of torment and pain. They speak of horrors seen, and horrors done. Sansa wonders if he will tell her about it.

“Sansa,” He repeats, before he realises his own mistake. “But it’s not Sansa anymore, is it? You’re Queen now.”  

_ I don’t want to be Queen. _

Sansa walks to where he kneels, taking in his appearance. It seems war has taken its toll, leaving Jon with sunken skin and tired eyes. He sports new scars too, the lines pink and insulting.  _ I have bled for you,  _ they taunt,  _ I have fought a war for you. I have killed for you. _

She wants to weep. She wants to scream.

Her hand comes to his cheek, her palm tickled by a beard grown and worn. With his face in her hands, she can feel the peace Jon promised. She just wonders when it will be taken away.

“You’re tired,” Sansa murmurs, her thumb brushing against an inflamed cut, “and hurt.”

“I’ve had worse.”

His words break her heart.

Sansa wants to curse them all, then. She wants to rain vengeance on all that sought to hurt Jon Snow, her heart twisting in agony at the thought of pain coming to the man before her. She wants to take the heads of too many to count and present them to her cousin. She wants to tell him she shall protect him too, come winter and come wars.

But vengeance can wait for another day.

“Come,” Sansa says, taking his gloved hands in hers and pulling him upwards. “We can talk inside.”

* * *

By the warmth of a large hearth, Jon tells her of the battle at King's Landing.

Fire and blood are the Targaryen words and so they should have expected nothing less. It still doesn’t make it easier to hear of the horrors committed in the name of a throne. Babes burned in their cradles, women slaughtered by soldiers and men turned to ash. A keep built by dragons and kept by Kings left in a crumbled ruin. Cersei Lannister found dead beneath the rocks that once housed her. And a dragon, let loose to fly east.

When Sansa asks of the Queen herself, Jon looks into the fire and mutters, “Any Queen that would burn a city to the ground is no Queen of mine.”

They don’t speak of the whispers that follow Jon Snow. Queenslayer, the small folk call him when his back is turned. Sansa can see the anger in his face when he hears it, the relief to be home fading and replaced by a bitterness she has seen before. It takes Sansa aback to see Jon like this, bristling at the phrase as he once would his surname.

She wonders if she acts the same way whenever she hears her new title.  _ Queen in the North,  _ they call her. It is jarring to hear and every time the crown is referenced, she often finds herself searching for the man who once wore it.  _ Take it back,  _ she wants to say, _ for my neck is too weak to carry such a burden. _

But her thoughts never make it past her lips and her crown remains, firmly fixed on her head. 

Ayra mentions the battle once after her return. The youngest Stark daughter rode into Winterfell on the back of a white stead one day, and simply claimed her rooms again, as if she hadn’t been missing for months. But Sansa knows not to question her sister, this girl of different faces and infinite skill. When the time is right, Arya shall come to her, she expects – and so she does.

Sansa is looking over the coffers when her sister floats into the room. A creak of a chair breaks Sansa out of her thoughts, and brings her attention to the girl beside her.

“Gods, Arya,” Sansa snaps, a litany of curses coming to mind. “Must you always sneak around and jump out of corners?”

“I don’t jump out of corners,” Arya says, glancing over the parchment. “I’m simply quiet.”

_ Quiet enough to destroy the Night King.  _ “Well, knock next time,” Sansa murmurs, suddenly impatient with her sister. “I can’t afford to drop dead of shock one day and leave this place to you.”

Arya smiles, an unsaid  _ I know  _ floating in the air between them.

Arya is content to simply watch Sansa work and in the time they had spent together, Sansa has learned to be content in silence.

“Gendry has written,” Her sister finally says, breaking the quiet that had claimed the room. “He says he is to be made the Storm King. I thought he might lose his new title after the Queen died, but…”

Arya trails off, her expression as cold as the winds outside.

“Gendry is a good man,” Sansa responds. “He deserves a keep of his own, and if he wants a crown too, so be it. Would you begrudge him that?”

Arya scowls. “A crown is a cage. Cersei let it ruin her; Daenerys let it rule her.”

Sansa meets the Stark gaze of her sister. “Jon will not speak of her.”

Arya snorts. “Jon saw the world burn and the woman he loved command it. And when she sat upon the throne, he took out his blade and did the same as Jaime Lannister. I understand why he doesn’t talk of it, or why he doesn’t talk of it with  _ you _ .”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sansa asks, taken aback.

Arya looks out the window, her eyes becoming lost in times passed. “It means, dear sister, that mayhaps Jon doesn’t want his honour to die in your eyes too.”

Brienne will not speak of what happened in the South. Like the other occupants of Winterfell, she avoids talk of such matters. Whenever there are whispers about the place that was once Kings Landing, the knight of Winterfell will leave the room – her hands clasped around a sword and grief clasped around her heart.

Sansa is the first to notice her sworn knight’s swelling belly. She hides it well enough, but forgoes her beloved armour and instead wears loose fitting tunics and furs.

The Queen in the North asks her friend gently, without prying eyes around them, if her suspicions are true.

Brienne turns pale, her fists clenching at her side and her lips curling into a tortured expression. It is almost as if her body is preparing for a fight, rather than a babe. With a nod, the knight from Tarth turns her back and shows her steel.

Sansa takes a few steps forward and lays her hand on her friend’s arm. “Do you wish to speak of it?”

Brienne’s eyes are closed, and she offers nothing but a shake of her head.

“Then we won’t talk,” Sansa murmurs, squeezing her friends arm. “Not yet, at least. And when the time comes, you shall have the babe here, at Winterfell. If you wish, he or she shall be a Tarth.”

Brienne’s shoulders slump, her body reacting to pain as it would a blade. But no sword could take down the knight of Tarth as well as grief could. The Stranger, in his cruelty, had made Brienne love a man destined to die and when he had come to collect, the Mother had seen to bless her with a babe.

_ The fighting may be done,  _ Sansa thinks,  _ but the war never truly ends. _

Brienne hastily wipes at her tears, muttering out apologies.

“Do not apologise for weeping,” Sansa says. “Hiding your tears is more offensive than shedding them – and after all the Gods have done to us, I think we deserve the freedom to cry.”

Brienne’s resolve crumbles, along with her mask. “He made me love him and then he died. And now my babe shall have a ghost instead of a father.”

Sansa threads her fingers through her friends, and tries to be for Brienne what Brienne was for her those years ago. “No nephew or niece of Tyrion Lannister shall grow without a father. And if you do not want the King of the Rock to know your child, then he won’t. Winterfell has fathered children before and it will again.”

Jon is sitting with Ghost when she tells him.

“Brienne is pregnant,” Sansa says, sitting down beside him.

Jon does not bother hiding his astonishment. “What?”

“Jaime Lannister loved her,” Sansa says, “and left her with a child in her belly before he rode South.”

“Jaime Lannister,” Jon spits, anger consuming him. It is becoming more common for him to succumb to his fury, bitterness accompanying him like a shadow. “The Kingslayer.”

“You sound like father when you say his name like that, all angry and honourable,” Sansa murmurs, her hand finding itself in Ghosts fur. “Papa told me to stay away from him when the court came to Winterfell. ‘That man brought down a king he swore to protect’, he said. ‘And there is no honour in breaking an oath’.” Sansa laughs now, the memory so faint she can barely recall his face. “Father may have placed a high price on honour, but he was sometimes blind to the person beneath it.”

“I didn’t think you would ever be the one to defend Jaime Lannister,” Jon says. “He returned South to fight for Cersei, after everything you had done for him.”

“It must have been an awfully difficult decision,” Sansa rationalises.

“A difficult decision is allowing wildlings south of the Wall. A difficult decision is deciding to fight for your home after years of imprisonment,” Jon snaps. “Jaime Lannister made an easy decision and he paid the price.”

Sansa meets his gaze. “And what price did you pay?”

Jon stands abruptly, his chair screeching on the stone floor. In his gaze is fury – an anger that speaks far louder than any of his words. “I’m going to go speak to Bran.”

His footsteps are heavy as he goes to leave.

“Jon,” Sansa calls out after him. “I just want to understand.”  

Jon hovers at the door, looking like a ghost of a man she once knew. “Do not fret, your grace,” He says, refusing to meet her eyes. “I paid a price high enough for the crime I committed.”

* * *

 

Jon avoids her.

When she enters a room, he leaves. When she calls his name, he offers her small words of response. And when she seeks his advice, he simply directs her to Bran.

It is maddening, but Sansa is not the girl she once was. She will not be intimidated by silence, nor will she be cowed into retreating. She is the Queen in the North, she tells herself, and she can fight against his silence.

But even if she wants to fight, there is little time to do so.

The North is in ruin and Jon Snow has dedicated himself fully to its repair. Gone is the man who once wore a crown and in his place is a labourer, stationed at the east wall of Winterfell and the Maesters tower. During the day, while she hears grievances and frets over their near empty coffers, Jon is attending to the keep once again destroyed.

Most days, Sansa watches him from her window. Dressed in a light tunic and heavy furs, he commands the rebuild of a home he won back. The men still remaining follow their King turned commander faithfully, working to rebuild what the dead destroyed. Soon enough, they move from the east wall to the south, repairing stone and restructuring the keep that withheld the dead.

He is a good leader, Sansa realises. She has known the fact for a long time, having been by his side when he reclaimed Winterfell and reigned over the North. But it strikes her hard when she watches him rebuild their keep, his hands stained by soot and his body under great strain.  

She wants to order him to his bed, and demand he sleep. She wants to draw him a warm bath and watch him relax. She wants to hold him in her arms and have him trust her, as he once had. But the trust is gone now and in its place, silence remains. Jon went South and came back a broken man, fractured by the war won and the woman murdered.  _ Queenslayer  _ has become his shame – and he wears it with tired shoulders.

Sansa wants to take his pain away. She wants to see him smile. And so it is with reluctance that she goes to her brother, asking Bran for advice. 

“War takes from us all. It took your ambitions, Arya’s dreams and Jon’s honour. You must allow him time to grieve,” Bran says, his tone droning on her nerves.

“Jon still has honour,” Sansa snaps. “It was an act of honour that saw him kill Daenerys. For what honour is there in burning babes in their beds, or ruling by fear? Daenerys wanted fire and blood for Westeros.”

“And Jon wanted peace,” Bran responds, a vague smile tugging at his lips. “I know, Sansa, but good intentions don’t erode the shame of sinful actions. Jon shall recover in time. You must allow him that courtesy.”

Sansa offers her brother a scowl. “You are no help.”

“I am not meant to be a help,” Bran says in response, turning back to the fire. “You know this.”

Sansa makes a face as she exits her brother’s chambers, tired of Brans riddles and rhymes. She loves her brother, but sometimes, his  _ talents  _ exhaust her beyond her capabilities. She doesn’t want to be lectured every time she happens upon his chambers, nor does she want to be told in riddles what the future may hold.

She simply wants her brother; curious, and vibrant, and with dreams of being a knight. But that Bran disappeared the moment he fell from the Tower.  _ Or was pushed by Jaime Lannister. _

“Your quiet tonight, your grace.”

Arya has her boots on the table, a dagger in her fingers and contempt on her face.

“Jon refuses to speak to me,” Sansa says, glancing to her sister. Arya watches her in amusement, which only seems to incense her. “Why are you smiling? This isn’t funny.”

“It’s funny to see you so concerned about winning Jon’s attention,” Arya says simply. “When we were younger, you would make fun of me for doing that.”

“We’re not the girls we once were, Arya. I love Jon and I want to make things easier for him,” Sansa explains. “If he would just talk to me, tell me what happened, mayhaps I could…”

“Fix it?” Arya guesses. “How do you expect to fix the shame he feels at being a Queen slayer? Jon is about as honourable as the Warrior and any hope of easing that burden is about as low as Winterfells coffers.”

Sansa sighs. “Do all my siblings think to lecture me, now? First it’s Bran-”

“All Bran does is lecture,” Arya says with a laugh. “The boy is about as fun as a whore at a funeral.”

“Arya,” Sansa admonishes.

“It’s true and you know it,” Arya snaps back, before she sighs. “Leave Jon be. Our brother has always been a sufferer in silence type.”

“Cousin,” Sansa corrects, taking her sister by surprise. “He’s our cousin.”

“To you, mayhaps.” Arya stands, her eyes narrowing in that way they do. It’s times like these that Sansa is reminded her sister is not always  _ her  _ sister, but a faceless woman guided by the Stranger himself. “Why do you call him our cousin? Even though we know the truth, nothing has really changed.”

_ Everything has changed,  _ she wants to say. Her lips remain tightly shut.

“Because he is,” Sansa says simply, her cheeks burning. “He is not of fathers seed, but of Lyanna’s womb.”

Arya cocks her head to the side. “And it matters now?”

“Yes,” Sansa forces out, shirking away from Arya’s harsh gaze. Standing up and desperate to change the conversation, Sansa crosses the room to retrieve a letter stamped with the seal of the Baratheon stag. “I received a raven from the Storm King this morning.”

Now it’s Arya’s turn to flush.

“He says you have been ignoring him.” Sansa reclaims her seat and pushes the letter forward. “Mayhaps avoidance is a Stark trait I didn’t inherit.”

“Shut up,” Arya mutters, snatching the letter and reading it greedily. She rolls her eyes by the end of it, throwing it back down and slumping down in her chair. “He is stupid.”

“He’s besotted,” Sansa corrects.

“And stupid.”

“Mayhaps.” Sansa grins at her sister. “But would it be so wrong for a man like Gendry Baratheon to court your favour?”

“I am not like you, Sansa,” Arya shoots back. “I don’t want to be a Queen.”

Sansa feels her heart thud in her chest, saying  _ you do not want it either. _

“I know,” Sansa murmurs, placing her hand atop her sisters. “And he knows that too.”

* * *

 

Jon Snow marks his name day in silence.

Sansa had commissioned the smiths to make him a new small blade, something he lost during his travels south. The hilt is engraved with a portrait of Ghost, two rubies for eyes. Sansa had been happy with it, pressing a number of golden dragons in the blacksmith's hands as she collected it.

But when it came time for the small feast Sansa had organised, Jon wouldn’t rouse from his bed – his door barred.

“Jon,” She calls through the wood. “Everyone is waiting.”

Silence meets her.

Sansa tries again, her palm flat on the wood. “Jon, you don’t have to be by yourself. If you don’t wish to have a feast, we can have a quiet dinner with just the family.”

Silence, once again.

Sansa inhales deeply, trying to calm the frustration brewing within her. “Jon… it has been moons. You do not speak to anyone but Arya. If you did not wish to have a feast, you could have told me when I asked. But you don’t  _ speak _ to me anymore and I am going  _ mad _ .” 

More silence.

Slamming her hand against the door, Sansa turns on her heel and storms down the hall. Rage as furious as winter itself burns deep within her, and she wishes the Gods would send something to mirror it.  _ If my anger were a storm, the winds would shake these walls and the rains would bring an ocean down upon us. _

The minstrels stop when Sansa enters the hall, the remaining Lords and Ladies of the North standing at the sight of their Queen. Sansa offers them a tight smile, remembering the falsities of Cersei Lannister as she comes to stand beside her brother. Sitting, the celebrations resume – even though Jon’s chair remains empty.

“Where is he?” Sansa demands of Bran, her eyes narrowed. “If he’s in his rooms, I shall have Brienne break down the door.”

“Sansa!” Arya chortles, her cheeks warmed by her wine.

Sansa pays her no attention. “Tell me.” 

“He’s not in his rooms,” Bran says, his gaze turning to the snow outside. “He’s out there.”

Sansa finds Jon working on one of the walls. His hands are covered by his leather gloves and his breath comes out in clouds of cold. Breathing heavily, Jon leans down to pull another stone onto the wall, groaning as he shifts the brick in his arms.

“Jon.”

He drops the stone on the wall, heaving a groan. He doesn’t bother turning back to her.

“It’s freezing,” Sansa says, looking down to her gown of dark blue and heavy furs. “Come back inside.”

Jon turns to look at her, his long hair obstructing his gaze. “I am fine out here.”

“You are going to freeze from the chill,” Sansa snaps, fury in her eyes. “You don’t even have a coat on, Jon. Do you want to invite the Stranger to our keep?”

“I do not keep the Seven.” His eyes hold fury now. “Go back inside, Sansa. The feast is missing its Queen.”

“I do not care if the feast is missing food,” Sansa sneers, stepping forward. “What I  _ care  _ about is whether I lose you to the cold. Now come inside.”

Jon’s jaw locks and he breathes out heavily. “Leave, Sansa. Enjoy your feast.”

“I will not leave,” Sansa grits out, going to stand beside her cousin. “You return south and become a mute. You leave me with a crown I never wanted and a nightmare of problems to fix and you expect me to do as you wish? I will not. I am not simply your sister anymore; I am the Queen. I am what you made me and you can have the decency to  _ look  _ at me when I am speaking to you.”

“I do not wish to look at you,” Jon finally says, turning back to the wall. “You betrayed me.” 

“What?” Sansa breathes, before she realises why he is angry. “I told Tyrion the truth, Jon. You made me swear before I even knew what you were asking of me.”

“If you hadn’t told-”

“She would still be alive?” Sansa asks, astonished. “Daenerys Targaryen liked adoration and when the North didn’t fall at her feet, she resorted to fear.”

“She saved the North.”

“If she didn’t, there would be no Westeros to rule!” Sansa argues. “When I talked to her, she didn’t want to listen to me. And I have known far too many Kings who didn’t listen to those around them.”

Jon closes his eyes, his hands clenching at his side. “But you still broke your word.”

There is a venom in his voice; a betrayal. “Yes,” Sansa admits, her chin jutting out.  _ I will not run from my sins.  _ “I did.”

“Because of your slip of the tongue, Daenerys lost herself.” Jon turns, his grey eyes violent and roaring for blood. “She blamed you, you know? Before she lay slaughter to thousands, she blamed you.”

Sansa inhales deeply. “I simply told the truth; Daenerys Targaryen murdered thousands. I am not to blame for her sins, just as she is not to blame for mine.”

Jon lets out a scoff. “You hated her from the moment you met her.”

“You gave up your crown for her!” Sansa slings back, her fury burning just as bright as his. If Jon wants a fight, he shall have one – and she shall be just as vibrant as any dragon. “You went south and fell at the feet of a foreign woman, forgoing your people who named you as their King.”

“It all comes back to this, doesn’t it?” Jon asks, coming to stand before her. He towers over her, his chest heaving with the cold in his lungs. But even as the snow begins to fall, and shivers take over his body, he does not step back. “I gave up my crown for the safety of the North.”

“You gave it up to appease her,” Sansa says. “You gave it up to sway her decision to march North. Do you know what that means, Jon? It means she would have stayed on Dragonstone if you had not bothered to give into her demands.”

Jon closes his eyes in frustration. “You hardly knew her.”

“And neither did you,” Sansa argues, her heart thudding violently as it tries to keep up. Sighing, Sansa attempts to calm herself – a voice reminding her it is Jon’s name day, after all. “When the dragon Queen came to Winterfell, and expected the North to bow to a stranger, I thought mayhaps she was misguided. For how could she expect allegiance from the North when she didn’t even know us? Then, she sought me out and we seemed to agree on a few things – until we reached northern independence. While she had been sitting in Meereen, we bled for the North and for our people. And here she is, a dragon no one wished to follow, asking us to give up what we fought for?”

Jon turns away from her, only for Sansa to intercede him – refusing to be avoided.

“Then I saw the way she looked at you at the feast, with jealousy in her gaze and I knew the North would never follow her,” Sansa says, her voice softening. “I have known many Kings, Jon. Robert was an absent drunk, Joffrey was an evil man and Tommen was a child turned King. But it was Cersei Lannister who looked at the crown with lust in her eyes. She wanted power – and I saw that same look in Daenerys.”

“You still broke your word.”

“I did,” Sansa says, gathering his hands in hers, “but of all my mistakes, that is not one of them.”

Jon’s face folds in agony, his internal battle clearing. “She killed thousands of people. She burnt them, Sansa. She burnt children.”

“I know,” Sansa murmurs, her hands coming to Jon’s face. It is cold, flushed though it might be. “And I’m so sorry, Jon. I know how you loved her. I’m sorry she couldn’t be the woman you wanted her to be – and I’m so desperately sorry that you had to take her life.”

Jon lets out a fractured sob, months worth of sorrow filling the cold winter air. For the first time, Sansa can see how broken he truly is. He is a fractured man, defined by his scars and sins. A man once defined by his honour, now known for an act of shame; an act of war.

“It was the right decision,” Sansa whispers, wrapping her arms around him as he lets out a cry. “You did the right thing.”

But it matters not when he is weeping openly in his Queens arms. For all her assurances, Jon feels the grief of his own wrongdoing more than anything else. None of her words or embraces could change that, and Sansa is left feeling just as bereaved as he.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, again and again and again.

Sansa wonders when the war will end.

_ It never does.   _

* * *

After Jon’s name day, things improve between them.

Gone is his silence and instead, Sansa is greeted by small words and updates on the construction. Some nights, they would sit by the fire – silence their only companion.

Other times, he would speak of memories of their childhood; for recent times were too painful to speak of.

“Do you remember when Robb sheep shifted Theon?”

Sansa laughs. “He complained for days. Every time we broke our fast, he’d be groaning about how he stunk of manure. And he did, mind you.”

Jon allows a rare grin to rest on his lips. “Your father was furious when he learned what happened.”

“I remember.” And Sansa did. Her father had taken Robb to his knee and brought the strap down upon him. It was one of the rare times Eddard Stark disciplined his children, who were so often spoiled by the Lord of Winterfell.  

Sansa finds herself swimming in an ocean of memories, trying desperately to remember what her father looked like. Time has eroded his face in her memories and she clings to what little she has left. Sansa thinks it cruel for time to take her father away from her mind, as the Gods had already sought to rip his life away.

They fall into a comfortable silence, both lost to their own past as the fire cracks. It’s a comfortable way to be, and so they begin to dine together every night. Arya would often join them and soon enough, Sansa felt a hesitant peace settle over Winterfell.

That peace is shattered when Arya announces she is to ride south.

“Why?” Jon asks, confounded.

“I want to see an old friend,” Arya says, hiding her red cheeks as best she could.

Sansa smiles at her from her chair, hiding her grin behind her cup. “When do you leave?”

“On the morrow.”

Jon peppers her with questions until she leaves, feigning exhaustion. Sansa is still trying to hide her smile.

“Where is she going?” Jon asks. “Truly?”

“The Stormlands,” Sansa says honestly, taking a sip of her wine. “She wants to see Gendry.”

Realisation dawns on his face. “Why couldn’t she simply say that?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa says with a shrug.

“You do,” Jon says. “What are you hiding?”

Sansa attempts to control her face, but her smile is so large it can barely be contained. “Nothing, I swear.”

Jon stands, coming to kneel before her. His grey eyes are alight with curiosity, something she hasn’t seen in moons. “I think you’re lying.”   

“I’m not-” Her words are interrupted by his fingers at her ribs, eliciting a peal of giggles.

“Tell me!” Jon demands through a life, his fingers pulling my giggles from her lips as she gasps for air.

“Stop, stop, please,” She says through gasping breaths, tears rolling down her cheeks. When her vision finally clears, she finds Jon grinning at her – a sight so foreign she has to blink to clear her gaze.

He must notice her astonishment, for the grin soon slips. Where there was once happiness, there is now a shadow of darkness, as if Jon cannot shake the shame that follows him. Sansa wants to shake him back into joy, but grief does not care for her want or whims.

“Are you going to tell me, then?” Jon asks, finally breaking the silence. He is more subdued than before and Sansa desperately yearns for the sight of his smile again. For what better sight is there in this world, than Jon’s smile?

Sansa musters up a grin, hiding her disappointment and trying to focus on her joy for Arya. Her sister, whose childhood was butchered by their father’s death, had finally chosen to be something more than a soldier. Sansa knows the significance of such a decision – and she doesn’t kid herself into thinking it was made lightly. “I think she loves him.”

The confusion is expected; the smile is not.

“Good,” Jon says, his grief forgotten for a time and his smile returned. She wants to bask in the sight of it, this echo of the man he once was. “There’s peace now and Arya deserves something.”

Sansa meets his gaze, feeling a burning unravel deep in her gut. “We all do.”

Jon’s eyes blaze with hushed truths he would never admit to, secrets he wanted to keep to himself. “Yes,” He finally says, turning to look at the fire, “we do.”

As winter deepens, so does their peace.

Ayra’s absence is felt deeply in the keep, but Sansa tries her best not to focus on her fears. During the day, she busies herself with her duties, responding to correspondence and hearing the grievances as she always does. When she has time, she spends it with Jon or Brienne, who seems to swell more and more each day.

But it is in the night that she feels the fear. As the sun disappears from the sky, the fear is there – wrapping around her heart and threatening to rob her of her breath. While she knows her sister is safe on the king’s road, armed by skills only war could teach, she cannot shake the unease. Her age old fears at the thought of a Stark travelling south are not simply forgotten – instead, they seem to intensify as she waits for the raven to come.

When the letter finally reaches Winterfell, Sansa searches for Jon in the training yard and forces him to read it. She doesn’t want to hear that her sister has been bludgeoned on the king’s road, or taken prisoner by some knight without banners. It matters not that logic tells her these things are impossible, for Arya Stark defeated the dead and no knight could take her life.

But whatever confidence she has in her sister’s abilities is battered at the thought of her father. Eddard Stark had been a war hero, the man who single handedly defeated Arthur Dayne, the sword of the morning, and yet even he was not spared from the executioner’s block.

_ All men must die,  _ she thinks, her heart hammering in her chest as Jon breaks the seal,  _ and Arya could too. _

“She writes that she is well,” Jon begins, his eyes scanning his sisters messy scrawl, “and that Gendry is a poor excuse for a King.”

Sansa lets out a laugh of relief, going to lean against a pillar. Her hands come to her face, shielding her eyes from the sight of others. She doesn’t want the courtyard, full with people from Wintertown and training soldiers, to see their Queen weep.  _ It is not dignified,  _ a voice says, oddly resembling Cersei Lannister.

But the relief is overwhelming, so much so that she can not help but cry. The Gods have taken everything from Sansa Stark; her parents, her blood and her purity. She has no doubt they could take more if they so wished. Arya would be a fine addition to their collection of Stark’s, another name to add to her list of ghosts.

Sansa hears feet shuffle on the ground next to her, before his heat surrounds her. His body shields her from the others, her forehead coming to lean against his chest. In his embrace, she feels safe. Her years of imprisonment wash away and the scars she bears seem to disappear; for in his arms, she is simply Sansa Stark. She is not the Queen, or Lady Lannister, or Lady Bolton – she is simply Sansa, and he Jon.

That familiar warmth blooms in her gut, spreading north as it makes its way through her veins. Like a dragon fire, it razes through her cells until it reaches her heart, which beats to the sound of his name. No fire, nor war could compare to the way he devastates her, and she wants drown in that devastation.

“It’s alright,” Jon murmurs, his arms wrapping around his Queen. “She’s safe.”

Sansa nods against his chest, biting her lip to keep her tears in. She must be strong for the North, for her people knew worse than war and fear. They had seen death, after all and had lived to tell the tale. But so had she; and still she was a wreck around him.

“I know,” Sansa says, clearing her throat and pulling back. Jon is watching her with a concerned gaze, his hair out of his face today. She reaches up to push a stray curl from his eyes, smiling tightly. “But fear does not always listen to logic, despite how much I might wish it too.”

Jon frowns. “I wish you didn’t let it control you.”

_ I wish you didn’t let shame control you. _

“War gave you many scars to wear.” Sansa moves away from him. “My scars are not so obvious.”

* * *

Brienne gives birth in the heart of winter.

Sansa stays at her side, her hand firmly clutched by the woman of the hour, as she endures the harshest battle of her life. Sansa thinks it ironic that the knight before her had battled the dead, and men alike, but no blade could compare to the torture of childbirth.

Another scream rips through her bedchambers. Sansa has put her knight in her own bed, needing room for the midwives to do their work. But even the best featherbed in the North can provide no comfort to Brienne. Her agony seems to be increasing by the minute, as is her grief.

“I don’t want this,” Brienne gasps out, throwing her head back. “I don’t want this.”

“Brienne,” Sansa says, pulling her face down to meet her eyes. “In an hour or two the pain shall be gone and you shall have a beautiful babe in your arms. I know it is hard now, but it shall all be worth it.”

Brienne lets out a sob. “It won’t. It won’t.”

“It will,” Sansa orders firmly. “I know you, Brienne and I know you shall love this babe. The pain may be horrible now, but women have been birthing babes for thousands of years – and you are no ordinary woman. You’ve fought the dead and won; this shall be easy for you.”

“Childbirth is never easy and only a fool would think so, your grace.” The midwife, an old dragon by the name of Alys Porter, wore an expression so grim she would be better suited as a Silent Sister. But she has years of experience, and with the North depleted of so many of it’s people, she was the only capable midwife Sansa would trust. “Now you need to push, child. This babe won’t just fall out.”

Sansa turns back to Brienne, tightening her hold on her hand and offers what little support she can as the agony returns.

By the light of dawn, Brienne of Tarth is delivered of a son – squalling and red and beautiful.

Sansa does her best not to weep, but it is hard when she lays her eyes on her sworn knight cradling her new son. Brienne is her closest friend – and after all they have endured, Sansa cannot keep her eyes dry. To see her knight consumed by joy at the arrival of her new babe is a small blessing in winter and Sansa does her best to stay present.

“He is beautiful, Brienne.” Sansa holds her friend’s son tightly to her chest, watching as his mouth opens and closes. He truly is perfect, with hair of fine blonde and eyes of jade. “What will you name him?”

Brienne can barely open her eyes when she says, “Jaime. Jaime Snow.”

Sansa smiles, coming to trace little Jaime’s nose. “That is a fine name, Brienne.”

When Brienne falls asleep and the maids attend to the babe, Sansa is left walking the halls – her feet taking her to a familiar door.

Jon answers when she knocks three times, his expression surprised. “Is it over?”

“Brienne has a son,” Sansa says, a smile spreading across her face. She lifts the wine skin she stole from the kitchens, pushing into Jon’s room with a grin. “And we must toast him!”

Jon closes the door, watching as Sansa sits cross legged before the fire and opens the cap of the skin. She takes a swig, seeming rather unlike the Queen she is. Like the flames in the hearth, Jon watches her with a fire in his eyes – sitting down beside her and taking the skin from her hands.

“How was the labour?”

“Horrible,” Sansa says, remembering the horror of it all. She knows she will have to endure such pain one day, but she hopes it is long in the future. “Brienne has fought men and dead alike, but I have never seen her in pain like that.”

Jon watches her with a humble smile, taking another sip.

“But the babe is beautiful, Jon,” Sansa continues. “He has fair hair and green eyes and he is  _ beautiful _ . Different from the babes born here before, but of course he is no fish.”

Sansa steals back the wineskin, taking another sip. She finds Jon’s eyes watching her every move, curiosity burning with  _ something  _ else. “It has been some time since a babe was born here.”

“Rickon was a beauty,” Sansa says, remembering the sight of him. Squalling in her father’s arms, he had a dusting of red hair and the eyes of their mother. Sansa had held him to her chest as she had Jaime, watching as her youngest brother settled into his dreams. “He had such a funny little chin. Father called it the Stark curse, although no one else had it except for you.”

Jon looks up as Sansa grabs his chin, grinning broadly. “There,” She says, her finger toying with the stubble that sits there. “It is just like fathers.”

His hand comes to hers, his fingers wrapping around her knuckles. “And you have his ears.”

Sansa’s hands go to her ears, her cheeks flushing at the memory of her father’s ears. “I do not!”

“It is fortunate you have such pretty hair to hide them,” Jon teases, to her chagrin.

Sansa rolls her eyes, taking another sip of the wine. “I can’t wait until Winterfell is full of babes and children; new Starks to come.”

Her thoughts travel to a future made of dreams and wishes, of babes with Stark grey eyes and hair of black. She thinks of a nursery filled with Princes and Princesses, all with the same look.  _ Jon’s look.  _ Her children would be able to join little Jaime and Jon Tarly – safe, in Winterfell, as she once was.

Jon cocks a brow. “You have to wed before that can happen.”

“I know that,” Sansa says with a wave of her hand. “But Westeros is rebuilding and no one wants to think of weddings, or alliances just yet.”

Jon is quiet, his eyes trapped on the fire as he says, “You will make a fine mother one day, Sansa.”

His eyes capture hers; and they  _ burn. _

* * *

Podrick Payne may be a quiet man, but he can be charming when he wishes.

In the absence of Brienne, he guards her with patience – becoming her shadow almost as soon as he becomes her companion. As she completes her duties, he follows, always with a quiet word and a quick laugh. Sansa enjoys his company, although Jon enjoys it even less.

Her cousin watches her with annoyance in hand, a scowl on his face whenever she turns to him.

It is after Podrick accompanies her to Winter town one day that Jon finally expresses his anger.

“Do you wish to wed Ser Podrick?”

Sansa turns around as Jon enters her solar, slamming the door behind him.

“What?” Sansa asks, stunned. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard Lord Royce fretting about it while in the yard,” Jon snaps. “He is concerned you might be throwing away your chance at wedding King Arryn.”

Sansa scoffs. “Lord Royce knows I will not marry my cousin. I have told him before.”

“But you have not told him about your desires for Podrick Payne?” Jon stands before her, his cheeks flushed by his fury. She hasn’t seen his anger in moons – not since that night in the snow.

“Jon, I would never desire Ser Podrick.” Sansa turns away. “He is my sworn shield, nothing more.”

“Brienne is your sworn shield,” Jon sneers. “Ser Pod is nothing but her squire.”

“He was her squire,” Sansa corrects him. “I knighted him after the long night, which was as much as he deserved.”

Her reasoning does little to soothe Jon’s anger. “Did you knight him because you want him?”

Sansa chokes in her spot, her cheeks turning scarlet. “ _ What _ ?” She asks, her eyes widening. The thought of something so ridiculous causes laughter to bubble from her lips, before rage follows. “How could you suggest something so ridiculous?”

“I have eyes,” Jon snaps, “and I have seen you with him.”

Sansa shakes her head. “You are being unreasonable.”

Jon stands before her, grabbing her by her arms. His eyes, grey and beautiful and  _ Stark _ , are burning once more… crazed with something she does not dare to name. “Are you sharing his bed?”

His words cut into her better than any blade, and she shakes him off. Ripping her arms from his, she turns around – wondering how he could suggest something like that. Did he not know her at all? Did he think her someone that would take a lover, risking everything she had worked so hard to secure?

Or mayhaps he didn’t know her at all, the thought an insult to her senses.  _ He has shown his true feelings before, Sansa,  _ a voice murmurs,  _ he left you so easily and traded your allegiance for the favour of a foreign Queen. _

“Leave.” Sansa does not bother turning to look at him. “Now.”

“I want an answer.”

She whips around, her fury as bright as any star. “You want an answer? To a question so insulting I could have you whipped?”

Jon does not even blink.

“No,” Sansa drawls, baring her teeth. She hopes her fury is as violent as a winters storm, or the dead that marched on the wall.  _ See my anger for the horror it is, rather than the little you make of it.  _ “I am not sharing my bed with Ser Pod, Jon. I am not sharing my body with anyone. No one has touched me since Ramsay Bolton climbed into my bed, tore at my gown and ripped through my maidenhead with a blade.”

Jon lets out a choked noise, a flinch ripping through his face.

“Does that make you happy?” Sansa spits. “Does it soothe your concerns to know the only man to take me was my abuser? The man that sought to wed me, beat me and fuck me? I have never known Ser Pod and I have no intent on knowing him, but if I did wish to, it would be my right as the Queen you made me.”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but she doesn’t let him. “You cannot give me a crown and expect me to bend to your will. I have been traded, brought and beaten – but I survived and I took back what was mine. I did so, not to become Queen or Lady of Winterfell, but to live a life of my own, and I will not be ruled by anybody ever again. Not Cersei, not Daenerys and certainly not you.”

Jon takes a step forward. “Sansa…”

“Leave,” Sansa says, tasting acid on her tongue. “Or I’ll have Pod escort you out.”

* * *

When Arya returns to Winterfell, six moons after she first left, she finds a war brewing between her family.

Sansa and Jon do not speak – their anger screaming louder than any words could.

So they exist in silence, avoiding each other as they did moons prior, when grief was still fresh and the dead still haunted them. Despite all the changes made, little has changed in those months; save for the frustration Sansa feels every time she happens to glance at her cousin.

Since that day in her solar, she has felt a fury only the Gods could know. It is vibrant and all consuming, her anger eclipsing everything else in her life. But for all Jon may apologise, or send her sulking looks, she will not sacrifice her fury for him. His words hurt her, and she will not let her anger go. Not yet, at least.

It is Arya who finally intervenes.

“You cannot keep going like this,” Arya says one day, watching Sansa as she stares out the window. Sansa has made it a habit of finding Jon in the courtyard and watching him while he went about his duties. Today, he is standing with Sam and little Jon – bouncing the infant in his arms. “It is stupid.”

“You don’t know what he accused me of.”  _ Whore,  _ she thinks, Jon saying as much in nicer words. She had never thought Jon would sink to the level of men before him, following in the footsteps of Joffrey Baratheon and Petyr Baelish.  

“I don’t need to,” Arya slings back. “He is stupid and I’m sure he said something equally as stupid.”

Sansa doesn’t respond.

Arya groans, coming to stand beside her sister. Storm’s End has treated Arya well, with her hair longer and her eyes less guarded. But Arya Stark returned to Winterfell without a betrothal, and without a King. Sansa shouldn’t be surprised; she hadn’t expected the pair to marry.  _ Arya never wanted to be Queen. _

“But is it worth ignoring him?” Arya asks. “You two are as bad as each other, both sulking like children. It is maddening.”

“You sound like Mama.”

Arya wrinkles her nose at the comparison. “I sound smart.”

Sansa scowls at her sister. “If he wishes to speak to me, he can – but I have nothing to say to him.”

Arya sighs, watching Sansa as she attends to her correspondence. King Tyrion has written, asking for Brienne and little Jaime to visit Casterly Rock. Sansa knows her knight will want to go, but she wonders if she will return.  _ Tyrion is without an heir and he would gladly legitimise Jaime, if it meant he could have a piece of his brother again. _

“You two are blind,” Arya mutters, so low Sansa can barely hear. “Constantly bickering, dancing around the truth like two fools.”

“And what would that truth be, sister?” Sansa asks, turning her gaze on Arya.

Arya doesn’t bother to answer her, turning her attention to other matters. “Why do we have to have a feast tonight? You know I hate them.”

“There will be wine and minstrels,” Sansa says, “and it is not  _ just  _ for you. House Mormont’s new Lady will be here tonight and we have to toast her.”

“I thought House Mormont died with Lyanna.”

“I did too,” Sansa says absentmindedly. “But apparently Jorelle, Lyanna’s sister, had a natural daughter before she died. I legitimised her and she is to be received as the new Lady of Bear Island.”

“Brilliant,” Arya says, crossing her arms across her chest. “So I shall not be the sole focus of attention?”

“Only if you wish, sister.”

When the feast gets underway, Sansa welcomes the new Mormont Lady. Alys Snow, made Alys Mormont, wears the colours of her House and a smile that seems too wide for her face. She is a girl of but eight-years-old – and she reminds Sansa little of her predecessor. She is sweet, with little bite compared to Lyanna; but there is a steel to her spine, as there is a steel to her blade.

Arya sits beside Sansa, telling Jon of a boar she had killed in the Stormlands. Jon is still yet to speak to her, hesitance in his eyes whenever he glances her way.  _ He should be hesitant,  _ she thinks,  _ he called me a whore in everything but name. How could he expect anything but my fury? _

Sansa takes to her wine, watching in delight as the dancing begins. She may be a Queen now, but when it comes to feasts, she is still a girl at heart. Ser Pod is the one to ask for her hand, his smile wide. Once clumsy, his feet have steadied over the years and he wears confidence now better than most men in her court.

When he takes her to the floor, she knows she is being spiteful. She catches Jon’s gaze over Pod’s shoulder as his hands find her waist;  _ and how they burn for her.  _ They’re always burning… burning with anger, or desire, she isn’t sure.

Swallowing, Sansa turns her attention back to Pod – offering him a smile she reserves for her favourites. “I hope you have improved since last time, Pod,” Sansa japes, “otherwise my poor feet are in for an assault.”

“Don’t worry, your grace,” Pod says, grinning. “I have been practicing.”

Sansa smiles indulgently and soon she is twirling, her red skirts flames at her feet as she is carried from step to step, the drums the heartbeat of the hall. By the end of it, she is breathless – the wine making her cheeks flush and her breasts rising with the exhaustion of her lungs.

“You  _ have  _ been practicing!” Sansa praises, eliciting a laugh from the young knight. She presses a kiss to his cheek, whispering, “You shall make a fine Lady happy one day, Ser Pod.”

A scrape of a chair ricochets through the hall, followed by angry footsteps. Sansa watches as Jon flees the feast, his fury a match for hers. She should have known Jon was watching; known Jon would react poorly. But Sansa hadn’t cared for Jon in that moment, not when Pod had seemed so proud of himself.

“Excuse me, Pod,” Sansa murmurs, before her feet act of their own accord – following Jon out of the hall and down the corridors.

“Jon!” She calls after him, her rage alighting with each step. Despite his apologies, he hadn’t changed. He still thought her the whore he accused her of being, the woman who would lay with her knight.  _ I am not Queen Naerys and he shall not think so,  _ she thinks, heart thudding to her anger. “Jon, come back here!”

A door slams, but it is not to his chambers. She finds herself pushing her own door open, the sight of him by her fire infuriating.

“What are you doing?” Sansa asks. “Get out of my rooms and go back to the hall. You acted as a fool, Jon, a man in his cups. What will people think-”

He rounds on her, his grey eyes wild with something she has seen for moons now; an emotion she hasn’t been able to place… until now.

_ Lust. _

“I don’t care what people think,” He bites out, before his lips capture hers.

Their fury melts away and in its place is desire. Her body arches as Jon’s arms wraps around her waist, pulling her closer to his body as his tongue enters his mouth. Her own hands go to his hair, a gasp escaping her as he digs his crotch into hers. She can feel his desire, hard and begging, as he pushes her against the stone wall.

His hands go to the laces at the back of her gown, ripping at them. “Sansa,” He pleads, before her lips claims his and her hands go to his own laces.

He pulls back, his eyes wide, but she gives him no time. “I want you,” She heaves, ripping at his shirt. “Now.”

By the fire, Jon’s eyes resemble the dragons he once rode – holding a fire not even the sun could possess. And it burnt all for her.

Jon’s hands finally unravel her laces, her gown slumping forward. Sansa shrugs out of it, her fingers coming to dispose of Jon’s tunic. His scarred chest meets her and her lips dance along his collar bone, up his neck and reaching his lips. She swallows his words as she kisses him, pushing him down on the floor beside the fire and sitting atop him.

The warmth falls over their skin, blazing and feverish. But Sansa cannot care, and neither can Jon – not when her hands are in his breeches and his are in her small clothes. She arches against him as his fingers find her heat, hotter than any dragon fire. It is unlike anything she has ever felt and she yearns for it, moaning as his fingers go deeper within her.

“Jon,” She gasps out, as his thumb traces a button often neglected. “Gods,  _ Jon. _ ”

She finds herself riding his fingers, as she would a stallion, meeting every flick with a thrust. She wants to drown in the pleasure found at his hand, his name a hymn on her lips as she reaches her peak. And then there are constellations dusting the back of her eyelids and a cry escapes her lips.

When she finally comes down, she finds Jon taking his fingers to his lips – licking them clean. Something about the sight of him tasting her inspires a warmth to reignite within her gut and she bends down to reclaim his lips, tasting herself as he did.

Her shift is soon discarded, thrown to the floor along with his breeches. Sansa places a hand atop his chest while her other hand finds his cock, lining herself up with him.

“Are you sure?” He asks, through panting breaths and groans. But it matters not what her answer is, for she is already sliding down on him – closing her eyes in want.

Arching her back, Sansa gives in to desires she has tried so hard to ignore, as Jon’s hands find her hips. He moves inside her, thrusting to match each one of her movements.

“Sansa,” He whispers, speaking her name as he would the Gods. “ _ Sansa. _ ”

A coil builds within her, before snapping back – a litany of curses and moans escaping her as she finds her pleasure once more. Jon follows her, falling off a cliff into an ocean of ecstasy.

Sansa collapses at his side, her lungs desperate for air as she tries to reconcile what had just occurred. But before the shame can creep in, he is wrapping her in his arms – their bare bodies meeting again as his eyes capture hers.  

“I love you,” Jon announces, almost choking on the words. “I have for moons and I have tried, gods, I’ve tried to ignore it. But how can I ignore you, when you are more beautiful than the moon itself? How can I not love you, when you have spent everyday fixing the land I left you?”

Sansa stares at him, dumbfounded, as her emotions battle within her.

“I don’t expect you to love me,” Jon admits, “for I know I am not what you wanted. But gods, how I want you to love me. I want to wed you and bed you and get my babes on you. I want to see you swell with my children and I want them to have your look. I love you, Sansa – and I am sorry it took anger for me to realise.”

Sansa inhales deeply, her heart thundering in her chest. His admission scares her, terrifies her, and yet for all her years of pain and torture, she has wanted nothing more than to be loved by Jon Snow. It is a realisation that rushes through her body, the same fire she has spent moons ignoring blazing every cell she possesses and setting her heart alight.

She can run from it, this feeling of foreign possession and fear. It would be easy, she thinks, to deny him; easy to protect her heart as she has in the past.  _ Love can be taken away just as easily as it is given,  _ her mind tells her, but her heart has no time for such fear.

Instead, it beats to the sound of his name, a steady symphony to the sight of his grey gaze. Sighing, Sansa moves closer to him, feeling his heart match hers as she cups his cheeks.

“I love you, Jon,” Sansa whispers, her thumb tracing the scar next to his eye, “for you are so easy to love.”

His smile is blinding, and his kiss is demanding. But nothing could compare to his next question.

“Marry me?”

Sansa is struck by a memory of her father;  _ I’ll make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you,  _ he said,  _ someone who’s brave and gentle and strong. _

The answer is obvious.

Sansa doesn’t need to say the words – instead, she dresses quickly and instructs him to do the same. Rummaging through her trunk, Sansa finds what little remains of her mother’s belongings, including the hand sewn cloak Sansa had found stashed in the cellar. It had been her mothers – and now, it will be hers.

In the dark of the night, with their family as witnesses and a few friends too, Sansa and Jon stand before the weirwood of Winterfell.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Sam asks, his smile too wide and his cheeks too red.

“Sansa,” Arya says at her side, wearing a smirk too cocky, “of House Stark, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble, comes to beg the blessing of the Gods.”

“And who comes to claim her?”

“Jon,” He says at her side, “of House Targaryen and Stark. Who gives her?”

“Arya, of House Stark,” Arya says, squeezing her sister’s fingers, “her trueborn sister.”

“Sansa,” Sam asks, “will you take this man?”

Sansa glances to Jon, her joy bursting, and thoughts of war far away. She is not the girl she once was, not the ward or the prisoner or the wife. She is simply Sansa, wedding the man she loved before the weirwood of her father.

She steps forward, leaving behind the pain of the past, and smiles at Jon. “I take this man.”

* * *

Their first babe comes nine moons after their wedding.

Robb Stark, black haired and grey eyed, enters the world screaming at the injustice of it all. Sansa has been labouring for hours and she is tired, but at the sight of her son, beautiful and so like his father, she manages to sit up. Jon helps her, his lips on hers before they go to her cheeks.

“Thank you, Sansa,” He says, again and again. “You have given me a son.”

“Give him… give him to me,” She says, exhausted as she reaches for him.

When her son is placed in her arms, Sansa feels a peace fall over her. It is a peace she has been missing since childhood, a peace that was ripped away when her father lost his head. With just one look, Sansa finds herself weeping – weeping for all that she has lost, and weeping for all that she has gained.

“He is beautiful,” Jon murmurs, his arms wrapping around his family. “He is just like father.”

“He is just like you, my love,” Sansa says, turning to her husband. In his grey eyes, she sees their past – but their future burns brighter than all the rest. “A Stark.”

And a Stark he was. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this little pre-finale fic! I don't know what 8x6 holds, but I'm not that hopeful for a happy ending. So here's my own little guesses at what could happen, with a Jonsa ending :)


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